Sweet Simbelmynë
by PaperHeart382
Summary: The sweet air of the trees, the lazy afternoons with nothing better to do - that was her peace, her love. Without proper preparation, immanent doom, war, two kings, love, a wizard, as well as a sprinkle of Elven magic were about to change all of that.
1. Quiet Nights

**A/N:** I wrote this recently in on of my old comp books from sixth grade (I never finished the whole book! IT WAS GLORIOUS.), and I'm pretty happy with it! I've heard that writing with a pen and paper stimulates a different part of your brain as opposed to typing... Definitely addicting. And yes, I did get a lot of giggles as I went through all of my old sketches/notes. :D

Anyways, enjoy this first chapter! I'll have another up in a few days, I hope.

**DISCLAIMER: **I do not own nor claim to own any of Tolkien's works, movies based of his works, etc. etc. But I wouldn't mind it. Just sayin'. ;o)

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In the year of 3011 of the Third Age, at precisely nine o'clock on a bright April morning – the 10th, to be exact – the mellifluous song of a nightingale permeated the sweet air of an ancient wood, waking all that were still in slumber. The bees began to busy themselves about the flowering herbs below the roots of the rowan trees, and on the hills where the wildflowers grew. Bright sunshine pierced through the leaves and branches of beeches, willows and oak trees. Moles began burrowing out from under the rocks; rabbits began their clover-eating. Squirrels sprang from branch to branch of oak trees in search of ripe nuts.

The wood was called Findalassë, filled with many trees yet inhabited by few folk, which was a true shame, because it was quite a lovely place. Ceaselessly did the streams laugh, the air sounding with the bees at work, the delight of thrushes and other song birds filled the boughs of great trees. All was untouched by the war that threatened the eastern land. The stately beeches stood firm in their roots and gazed ever heavenwards, humbling a few of their bows for the pleasure of weary travelers.

And it was on one of those humbled boughs of beech that a young woman lazed on, deeply engrossed in a tremendously thick book bound in aged leather. Her gaze pierced each page, taking her time in savoring each word and sentence, just as she savored the sweet blackberries she subconsciously popped in her mouth. About her waist was tied a white cotton apron, now partially dyed brilliantly from the fruit that threatened to spill out of her apron pockets. She scrunched her nose and pursed her stained ruby lips in an odious manner when she found a sour berry in the bunch, and was debating heavily on whether to suck it up and swallow it, or spit out the vile thing and be done with it once and for all when the sound of clip-clopping entered her ears. Involuntarily, she swallowed the foul jelly, and made an even more entertaining face as it slid down her gullet. She closed her book and listened as the sounds grew nearer.

She was aware that few knew the way through the wood, and seldom did she receive visitors so near the heart of the wood that this put her on her guard. A loud, low whistle sounded, and a cheery voice called out,

"I beg your pardon, miss, but do you know that way to the Lord Arandil's hall of Nildocar? I seem to have lost my way."

Whatever horrendous look that held to her face a moment before was gone, and it was brought to life by shining eyes and a beaming smile on her golden face. Behind her stood a tall, elderly man with impressively bushy grey eyebrows, which couldn't hide the twinkling of the eyes that lay beneath them. His long grey beard nearly matched the color of his attire, which included a tall, pointed hat; everything about him seemed to be brighter than grey, including the dappled grey horse that stood behind him.

"Mithrandir!" she cried, shortly before throwing herself on him in a voracious embrace. He gave a deep, hearty laugh, returning the gesture.

"My dear Istirien," he greeted, placing his hands on her shoulders. "It seems I've been gone far too long – I see that you're taller and fairer than ever, ever like your mother. Why, I believe that last time I saw you, you were still fixed on berry picking."

Istirien looked away innocently at she stepped out of his hold, hands clasped in front of her. Gandalf saw the pockets on her apron bursting with wild berries and their juices, and gave a low chuckle. "It appears that you have only grown outwardly. But I do hope you would still accompany me to your father's halls, my dear, for it seems that you've missed me, if only a little."

"Hah!" she let out a loud laugh, her rich eyes shining with amusement. "You're only trying to get my energy out by walking now, so that dinner with my father would not be interrupted by me and something I feel that, at the time of interruption, was extremely urgent, aren't you?"

The wizard didn't reply to her. Instead, he began fixing his pipe, although the twinkle never left his eyes. Istirien tilted her head, a childish half-smile holding to her lips.

"Or maybe you wish to tease me by keeping silent while I talk to you?"

At this, he took her arm in his, and began leading them farther into the woods, his horse following close behind. The sun was beaming through the trees, a veil of golden radiance illuminating all it touched in the woodland realm. Cool, plush moss covered most of the forest floor, which to the wizard had no effect, but for Istirien, who had neglected shoes that day, it was bliss.

"No," said Gandalf finally, "no – I think I've teased you enough in your younger days… For now, at least," he sent her a wink in jest. "I was just thinking how I might come about an intelligent conversation with you for the first time in both our lives, and perhaps perambulate in the wood a bit. Shamefully long time since I've been here last."

"Oh, Mithrandir," she scolded lightly, her golden cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "I was fifteen when I saw you last! We had intelligent conversations then, did we not?"

"Exactly my point," her grunted.

"We talked of Elves, of the Lord Elrond, his sons—"

"—At which point you interrupted me to inquire about their relationship status…"

"That was not non-intelligent conversation. Quite the contrary, I assure you."

"And how are the musings of a lovestruck fifteen year-old girl contrary? Do enlighten me, please."

Istirien kept her gaze on the path ahead of them, a slight smirk tugging playfully at her lips. "I was merely testing your intelligence then, Mithrandir," she stated coolly. He rolled his eyes at this, sucking in some fine smoke from his pipe as they ambled along, and blowing out a small sail boat for the amusement of his company. After a bit of silence, Gandalf glanced down at her.

"Are you well, my dear? You're not talking."

"Yes, I'm fine. I was just thinking about today. Do you ever grow tired of these woods?"

He lifted an eyebrow. "If by 'growing tired' of this, you wish to escape into the world and see the toil of war and of most that are in existence, then no, I do not grow tired of this wood."

It was her turn to roll her eyes today. "You misunderstand me, Mithrandir. I _was_ going to say how hard it is for even _I_ to grow weary of these woods. Ostensibly…"

"No! Don't you start on me now," Gandalf replied sternly. He quickly added, as a precaution for their next subject, "I believe I'm in the mood to tell you a story, my girl. What do you say?"

"What should I say?" she asked, a clear smile beaming up at him. "'No'? Though, if I were still a child—"

He cut in hastily, "Which you are."

She pouted.

"Which I am… _At heart_… I would be jumping up and down with joy right now. But you know that I've turned twenty last February, yes? I may be a too old for stories, Gandalf… That is, if I were someone else and terribly foolish. So! Tell me a magnificent story of battles and glory, and I shan't interrupt like I used to. I promise."

They walked on a bit in silence as Gandalf pondered a tale for his young companion. He blew out a green smoke ring, and then the proper story came to mind, a nostalgic glow in his eyes.

"Have I ever told you of the hobbit I met, Bilbo?"

She shook her head.

"I suppose I should, shouldn't I? I'm actually on my way to visit his nephew just now – that is the business that brings me to your neck of the woods – and I'm quite fond of them both! Surprising creatures, hobbits are, you know. More pluck for their size than most warrior men I've seen. Bilbo Baggins is his name, and it was a little over seventy years ago that I first met him. It was the morning of May 8th that I came strolling down his lane in Hobbiton…"

As he further in his tale, his eyes gleamed in a way that Istirien had never before seen them gleam, as he laughed, deep, rich, strong, hearty laughs like her father often did. When the tale of the trolls came for telling, Gandalf's voice echoed perfectly the words of the past that he had used to trick the three stupid trolls into arguing until sunrise, their ultimate demise. He then pulled out his sword, Glamdring, gleaming beautifully in the sunlight, but a small portion of the pulchritude and glory of lost kingdom of Gondolin. He launched into the story of Rivendell, the Lord Elrond's welcoming halls, and this time, Istirien did not inquire about his sons (much to Gandalf's delight), although a smile crept to her face at the thought of it.

After a particularly long while of describing the food and wonder of Rivendell to her, he brought the tale to the story and mishaps of the Misty Mountain Orcs, how he barely managed to escape, and went back to save the dear old Dwarves and Bilbo. Gandalf told of how odious the Great Goblin was, and the voraciousness of the regular goblins; and finally, the losing and finding of their beloved burglar Bilbo. He could have gone on a great deal longer, with much more elaboration, had they not finally arrived at the hall of Istirien's father, Nildocar.

A small taste of the splendor of the kings of old was before them in only half its grandeur, and even Gandalf paused a moment to remember its beauty.

The tall walls that encircled a great manse were now crumbled, and ivy hung so thickly over them that one could easily mistake it as only a hedge. Great iron gates hung open in the middle of the wall as if to welcome them. Within the walls the manse loomed over them, at least thirty-feet high at its pinnacle, the roof smooth and fashioned of brilliant white stone. Windows were hewn into the great building, framed with intricate carvings that looked elvish of some kind; a wonder to behold. The hall would have wrapped itself completely around the courtyard, but had sustained some damage, and had been patched up decently enough by modern man with common stone. Star jasmine had wrapped itself around nooks and crannies of that more modern addition, and streamed up the sides half-way.

Nildocar's courtyard was nothing short of wild – daisies grew where they wanted to, rocks were here and there, sunflowers could follow the sun from the middle of it, and lavender streamed from the corners of the house. Poppies, lupine, daffodils, and amaryllis popped up here and there all over the yard. It was not paved properly: large, smooth stones were laid out as a pathway from one place to another. Everything else that grew and wasn't a flower either moss or heather. Behind and around the house was a large yard, filled with a perfectly wild array of flowers, vegetable gardens, orchards, and a small vineyard in the back. There were other small buildings that lined the yard which were much more humble looking than the main house, made of common stone and thatched roofs, mainly being garden sheds and tool houses, perhaps a smoke house and a chicken house as well.

One should notice these things upon arrival, but when Istirien's mother was in the kitchen, and there was smoke rising from the chimney… Suddenly you were aware of how hungry you were, when you last meal was, and how wet your mouth swiftly became. The aroma of bacon and eggs and mushrooms wafted through the air, mixed with the sweet notes of a woman's singing, all of which floated to the path where they stood; Istirien realized that she had only eaten berries that morning.

A deep, hearty, barrel laugh rolled out from the kitchen, and within moments, a tall man was standing in the door frame. Had his face not been lined with years of laughter, and tan from being under the sun, his curly black hair wouldn't have made him look so wild; but his clear grey eyes were honest and true. It was hard to decide whether he was willowy

"Arandil," Gandalf greeted. Arandil met him in a strong embrace, his smile as lively as ever.

"Mithrandir," his large hands encompassed the wizard's in a friendly manner. "Come! Stay as long as you like, as often as you like, my old friend. You are most welcome in my halls. How long has it been? Ten years it feels since we were merry enough, I should say."

"Five years papa," Istirien corrected. Her father's expression did not change.

"She stops us, and this time it is not about Elven sons," he chortled. She sent him a playful glare before walking past him towards the kitchens, only to have him take hold of her arm. He looked her up and down, a frown framing his lips.

"What's this? Sullied another apron while out on a morning walk, have we, Glauriel? Blackberries, of course…"

Gandalf cleared his throat lightly, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps, if she had enough leftover to make a nice pie or perhaps a few tarts, Arandil…"

The wizard was letting his mind wander past breakfast, after lunch, and to possibly as early as afternoon tea… But the man had no time to answer Gandalf's advice, for a woman, fair as the dawn stood beside him, her rich eyes shining with warmth and affection. Her melodious voice could have put the nightingale to shame as she spoke.

"Welcome, Mithrandir! Come – grace my table with your presence, for never have you turned down my food, not even when you were full."

"Hail, Istiel, daughter of kings," replied Gandalf, bowing low. "To answer your question, my good lady, I shall say that it has been a grievous occasion these past five years _not_ to have your cooking. Now! Come, Istirien, and fix me some nice hot tea while your father and I talk, won't you? Also, if you would like to start on that pie, I'm sure none will complain…"

The hours of that day flew by them as they always did when Gandalf came to visit. So much was the case this time that their lunch had been drawn out to two in the afternoon, which left little time for any other meal but dinner. And as the sun began to set, the wizard could be found beneath a large beech tree in the yard, pipe in hand, and Istirien sitting peacefully at his feet. The first of the fireflies began to light themselves around the pair. Istirein drew her legs to her chest and shut her eyes, savoring the slight breeze that tickled her nose. The delicious smells of roasting meat and herbs hung in the air around her as her mother worked in the kitchen, along with the softer smell of pipe weed that Gandalf loved to smoke. She opened her eyes again and let out a sigh, in time with the smoke ring Gandalf had just blown out.

"Gandalf?" she asked in a small voice, hardly audible. The wizard snapped from his slight trance regardless upon hearing his common name.

"Hm?"

"You tell me so often of great battles and old kings… Do they really happen that often?"

Gandalf pursed his lips, debating an answer. "By the Dúnedain's time, by my time, or by the time of the Elves? By the time of the Dúnedain's time, no – they happen seldom, but still, they happen. By my time and the Elves' time, oh yes! Indeed, quite often."

"What about my time, Gandalf?" she shifted quietly at his feet, plucking a buttercup from beside her.

"By your time," he trailed off, and when Istirien looked up at him, she saw by the last light of the day that his wise old face flickered with pain. The shadow hardly left him when he picked up his sentence again; "I should not wish it to ever happen in your time, my girl. I do not tell you of the horrors of war, which are far oftener accomplished than the glories I share with you. What brought such a question to mind?"

She smiled, hugging her knees closer to her as she breathed in the perfume of the buttercup.

"I just wanted to know… I love these nights, Mithrandir. Hearing the wind tickle the leaves, the sighs of the trees, the laughter of the streams; watching the fireflies dance under the starlight, and great ghostly ships sail through rings… I don't want these nights to end. Do you think they ever will, Mithrandir?"

The wizard did not answer. He settled further into his chair, and narrowed his eyes at a multicolored ring that he had sent out. The silence of human voices was great, but the songbirds and the crickets sang on without notice. It was known fairly well that Gandalf never said anything that he felt didn't need to be said at the time, and it was common knowledge that he appreciated silence in company, as well. The halls of Nildocar were seldom thus. Untouched by war and toil, the wood of Findalassë was a safe haven for those who dwelled within it.

But silence with Istirien was still not completely achievable, even at this age. Her sweet voice broke the silence after fifteen minutes.

"Since I know that you'll be talking with my father after dinner," she gave him a childish smile, "and perhaps because you never tell us however long you plan to stay when you visit… Would you finish the tale of the hobbit, Bilbo Baggins for me?"

He raised an eyebrow at this; she knew his methods well.

"Of course, my girl. Where was I?"

"You had just been reunited with Bilbo after the Goblin fiasco," she supplied.

"Ah! Yes, I remember now. Thereafter, we travelled many miles still, and in the dark with a waxing moon. Goblins are dreadfully resentful creatures, and I _did_ manage to kill the Great goblin – which is something they have recently put aside, but not forgotten – so naturally, they would be after us as quick as can be. We had arrived at a meadow, when we began to hear the howling of Wargs…"

During that evening, Gandalf brought her over rivers, in the talons of great eagles to the tops of mountain, around the edges of Mirkwood, to the now re-established Kingdom of Dale, and into a battle – the Battle of the Five Armies, in which even _he_ sustained wounds. Elves, Men, Dwarves, Orcs, and eagles fought and died in that great battle, though in history, it wasn't a very important battle. He brought her back with Bilbo, and his two humble chests of gold, with Beorn, the man who could change into a great bear. It was at Rivendell that Istirien was forced to part with Bilbo, because it was then that her mother announced dinner.

Dinner and any other time with Gandalf always was an ordeal, unforgettable.

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**A/N**: A feeeew things... You may have noticed that I used the name "Glauriel" at one point; not a typo. It's just a name Istirien's parent's call her, meaning "golden daughter," referring to her skin color. :)

For the longest time, I thought that rhubarb was a berry, and originally had her picking rhubarb berries... No. It's not. It looks like a red celery stick. My dreams of having rhubarb pie have been crushed; I was hoping it would be sweet. :(

And the forest, Findalassë, is my own creation... It's meant to be south-west of Isengard, above the mountains, and out of the borders of Rohan. Make sense? Of course it does! :D


	2. Premonition

**A/N:** Wow! Thank you for your reviews, guys! They are WONDERFUL to read - I love hearing your feedback! :) Here's chapter two; I hope you enjoy your read. :)

**Disclaimer: see chapter one.**

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The wizard did spend the night, if you can call sleeping from the wee hours of the morning until noon 'spending the night.' To the joy of the household, he didn't leave them that day, or the next. He stayed for a long time, walking and talking arm-in-arm with Istirien, telling more tales as she sat at his feet in the evening, and laughing terribly when she was so engrossed in his narratives that she forgot about her pie, which burnt to a crisp in the oven. At dinner, when the wine flowed free, and the food was all gone, he would talk with her father about things over the mountains, stirring in the east. Arandil had errands in the neighboring lands and would take Gandalf with him from time to time; on the days when he preferred to stay home, he would take tea with Istiel, or spend hours poring over one of the many lore books from their library.

After three weeks of his presence, he left them. Off to see Frodo, he said.

Many years passed by, and many more times did Gandalf pay them visits. Istirien found herself drawing closer to him than she had before. They both laughed at this and supposed that it was due to the fact that she wasn't talking constantly _at_ him, and that when she did talk, it was intelligent conversation _with_ him. Soon, it was tradition of theirs to take at least one walk in the woods together whenever he visited. The world around them seemed to change with each visit, and always did Gandalf drop small hints and riddles that something dark was stirring in the east, but he dare not taint his visits with gloom and doom. Arandil and he held many late night counsels in the study, talking in hushed voices behind locked doors.

One day, in early July of the year 3018, Gandalf surprised them with another visit. Though it had only been a year or so since his last visit, the lines on his face were more evident, and his lips seemed tighter. He looked exhausted. Arandil and he went away after dinner that night, to his study, where they talked many hours into the night. Grief began to tug lightly at the heart of the lady of the white halls; her repose was tainted by malevolent dreams and characters. Faint grey light began to slowly cast away the shadows in her room early the next morning, revealing tangled sheets and pillows in disarray. A frown could be seen on her tired face as she stared blankly at the ceiling above her, dark bags having developed as she battled through the night with the murk and mist of tainted visions.

The light seemed to wake her from her trance, and without a second's delay, she threw on a cotton robe before flying down to the kitchens. Something she saw last night was haunting her, something repeating in her mind about the importance of a kitchen… Also, she was feeling a bit peckish after all that fighting, and some eggs and bacon sounded wonderful right then. What she found when she arrived, however, wasn't what she had expected to see…

"Mithrandir?" she inquired after watching him for several seconds. He was flustering about the kitchen when she arrived, and jumped at the sound of her voice. "Are you well?"

"Oh, my, Istirien," he breathed deeply, regaining a little composure. "Did I wake you, my girl?"

"No," she said in a soft tone. "No, I don't believe you did… I could not sleep the night away, and I was worried about kitchens."

Gandalf gave a small chuckle at this. "Ah, well, I'm sorry to hear that. I myself cannot prolong my stay for you and talk as we used to – I'm only here until I find breakfast, and then I must part. I do beg your pardon!"

Her heart felt an extra weight being tied to it as he went back to bustling around in search of breakfast. She had hoped her would stay, and that they could walk together, or at least enjoy breakfast together… At that thought, she realized that yes, indeed, they could.

"Gandalf," she put a gentle hand on his arm, "go and sit – I'll make you something. Two eggs and three slices of bacon sound reasonable, yes?"

He smiled down at her.

"In that case, why don't you put some tea on? I suppose I could delay, if only a bit…"

Never before, no matter how hard she had tried, had she ever caught the wizard off guard or before he left in the early morning. Years would pass from today, and it would be one of her fondest moments with him, when the air was still and the house quiet, and even the rooster himself had hardly any time to wake before his leaving. He talked as she cooked, and listened in silence as she sang while he ate:

_"A Elbereth Gilthoniel,  
silivren penna míriel  
o menel aglar elenath!  
Na-chaered palan-díriel  
o galadhremmin ennorath,  
Fanuilos, le linnathon  
nef aear, si nef aearon!_

__

A Elbereth Gilthoniel!  
o menel palan-díriel  
le nallon sí di'nguruthos!  
A tiro nin, Fanuilos!

_A! Elbereth Gilthoniel!  
silivren penna míriel  
o menel aglar elenath!  
We still remember, we who dwell  
In this far land beneath the trees,  
Thy starlight on the Western Seas."*_

By the time the sun had well and fully risen, they were nearing the end of their breakfast, which was anything but leisurely. Standing up, Gandalf put his pointed hat atop his head and bowed.

"I thank you for that. It was better than anything I would have made – pray tell that we'll be able to dine once more on an occasion in which I find myself at ease to stay longer. I'm afraid I must be off now. Good bye then!"

"Good bye, Mithrandir," she smiled. "It was wonderful seeing you once more. Come back anytime you wish; the doors are always open to you."

He gave her a smile before walking out the door. A sense of dread suddenly clawed at her heart, and a voice inside her head was urging her to stand and move. Tiredness suddenly racking her body, and only with great force of will did she finally stand and run after him. Gandalf was untying his horse from a post, already saddled and packed, when she arrived.

"Mithrandir, wait!" she called. He turned to her, a look of alarm on his face. In a flurry she embraced him. "Keep safe. My heart bids me to tell you of dark things to come your way, but of what I cannot say. Be cautious! Even among friends, I fear, there may be enemies."

Their eyes locked, and for a moment, she gazed at doubtful, strained blue skies under bushy eyebrows, that was soon replaced with a look of urgency.

"As well as I can in this day and age. I'm afraid I've tarried too long here, but I must ask something of you. Tell none of what you overheard your father and I speak of last night – yes, I know you well enough to know that you were at one point or another listening – tell none without my leave! No, not even the elves, or your own mother. I do not know when I shall return or by what road. Now, I bid you farewell, my girl."

With that, he pulled himself into the saddle of his horse and sped away. That was the last time that Gandalf ever came to stay at Nildocar, or even wandered through the wood Findalassë. He never again sat at the table of Arandil, never again sat outside under the beech tree on warm nights with Istirien at his feet, nor did the forest know any more of smoke rings and sail ships. And the world seemed to know it as well, for on the day of his departure, it stormed in the summer as never before. The sun was nowhere to be found among the gloomy storm clouds. Thunder shook the earth in its cries, while lighting sought to show all in its wake the reach of its arms, fanning across the sky, felling far-off trees and frightening beasts into hiding.

Hours into the afternoon, Istirien sat in a window sill, gazing out into the storm wistfully. It was always a small, faint hope of hers that Gandalf would stay longer than a day. Most of the time, it was granted, although another hope of hers which was even smaller (but twice as strong) was to see him set off the fireworks that he sometimes brought along with him. That was almost rarer than his visits, however. If anything else, though, she longed to listen to her father and he converse, not in the hushed whispers of secret things as they had been doing recently, but of the conversations that lead to laughter. The contagious type of laughter, that did not require one to know what they were talking about in order to join in. She wanted to hear his riddles once more – the riddles that were not of oncoming and ancient wars, but riddles for the sake of riddles.

"…_to rule them all, and in the darkness, bind them."_

Those were the first words she could make out the evening prior, as she listened in at the door without welcome. They brought a foreign chill to her bones, such as she had never felt before, and plagued her dreams the night before. After Gandalf had spoken them, she remembered hearing a sigh of grief from her father, and even quieter their voice became after that. She heard nothing after that, and did not wish to.

But perhaps now, she would have liked to. It may have made more sense out of Gandalf's odd departure that morning, and perhaps even more of his words to her. If she could not even speak of what she heard to the fair, laughing elves, she could not think of anything that could be worse. Uncertainty showed in his eyes the entire morning, even when he was laughing. When had the wizard ever been known to be uncertain? Tides would change at his mere arrival; dwarves would behave and hobbits would go on adventures at his call…

"The hours are growing darker…" Arandil sighed beside her, leaning against the wall.

"His words, too, papa… I cannot forget them – they gave me great grief last night, among many dark visions."

Had the lady looked any less than her mother at that split moment, and more like her father, they could have been mistaken for siblings at that moment, regardless of her father's age lines. Pain was stretched across their faces – the same type of pain, of knowing and not knowing, of seeing while blinded by darkness. Their thoughts trailed the same path.

"You eavesdropped last night, didn't you?" his voice held no emotion. "I had wished you hadn't, my dear Glauriel. It was of darkness we spoke, and I wished you not to be a part of it. Bah! I should know you better by now. Twenty-seven years it's been since the day of your birth – my only child."

"Had I been a boy, you may yet know me less, papa, for I would be out with my cousins in the mountains and valleys of the west."

"'Tis true, 'tis true… I still fail to see why I keep expecting you to act as though you remembered your age, though. I wonder at times whether you glide above the stones or had learned to walk in the air; neither of us heard a sound. Pray tell, how much did you overhear last night?"

Istirien kept her eyes on the gates of the wall, half expecting to see a familiar grey horse trot in, and a soaked Gandalf deciding that it was not the weather for travelling. The sun shown briefly through the cloud, laughing in triumph of the gloom by lighting everything it touched with warm gold rays. The rain drops that were caught in its embrace turned swiftly into a sheer curtain of jewels, glittering as they splashed down into pools of molten gold. Still was the heart of the lady for a moment, as a shadow drew nearer to the glimmering gate. It beat again when she saw that it was only a doe and her fawn, searching for shelter in the raging storm.

"I heard little," her voice was coarse, as if it had momentarily forgotten how to escape her throat. It softened a little, "For what I did hear lay hold of my heart, and forbade me from slumber. "_…to rule them all, and in the darkness, bind them._" I saw darkness creeping over sunny mountains, like claws of a beast searching for food… And heard shrills so high and evil I feared I would go deaf, atop darkened hills which I had never seen before, and shadows so fiendish that I felt even the elven warriors of old would have trouble with them.

"A dragon with three heads I also saw: one was white, white and beautiful as an opal, with many colors glimmering in the light; it held itself with pride above its brothers, with a wise, welcoming face. Its closest brother was white as well, yet not shining and gleaming in the sun at the other – the scales reminded me of the aging flesh of man, but it was still tight and young. It did not like either brother, for it seemed to lower itself to the ground in disdain of them. The last brother was dark as a Goblin cave, with a longer and larger neck, and three red eyes, from which a hateful red light glowed. The eyes all looked in separate directions – two of them were focused on its brothers, while the third above them searched, and could not find what it sought. The body was stretched far across the earth..."

The look on the honest man's face was strained upon hearing this, his eyes sunken with grief. He gave a heavy sigh before speaking to his only daughter,

"Dark are the days to come, and I cannot fathom what the meaning of this vision could be. I grieve to hear that at this age you must learn your lesson of eavesdropping, dear Glauriel, and even more of what you heard. I cannot say of what the rest of his words meant, for I fear that you already have heard more than you should about this matter."

"I had never thought of how long the arms of the darkness reached," her voice was faint, but the light in her eyes shown even though they were downcast. "I now begin to see how foul, how belligerent they truly are to have reached so far west, to have reached Mithrandir… His face, papa! I, I cannot describe. Youth was absent, and yet he is many ages old, I know. Do you know of what I speak?"

"So I have noticed it, too." His voice was gruff, and his eyes quiet, "A foul hand indeed. You know him differently than I do, my dear. He had only ever shown you his love; I have seen his eyes nearly blinded by fury and rage, and Glamdring shining as brilliantly as the stars above, swift to embrace the flesh of Orc. Yet, never have I seen him as he was last night, or flustered as he was in this morning," at the startled look from his daughter, he cracked a small, wry smile. "That must make you wonder what else I've seen and not thought to present… Fear not – it is not a habit of mine, nor will it become one.

"He did not speak to me plainly this visit, and uttered many riddles which I have yet to solve. I fear that even in these halls, his business was not safe…"

"I feel a strange change in the air, even here, papa… as if the war in the east will soon spread like a disease, felling both old and young. A war that blocks out whatever light it can, that seeks darkness and draws from it all its breath."

They were cast into a companionable silence now, one that even Istirien felt great need of. Great, heavy rain drops fell from the sky, no longer tormented by the howling wind. Pressing her head against the cool glass, she let her eyes close, and her mind wander from the darkness. A smile crept to her features.

"The nightingale," she breathed. Her father cast a questioning gaze towards her. "He sings far into the night, early in the morning, in the middle of storms as if it were spring and required rejoicing… Amidst darkness and dawn, he does not halt his song. Nightingales, papa, remind me greatly of Mithrandir."

"So they do," he said with a smile. "So they do…"

Arandil pressed a large, calloused hand to her cheek and lovingly kissed her forehead. The scent of hay and of horses filled her senses.

"I'll talk more with you tonight, my Glauriel," he said. A small light seemed to pour in through the murk that clouded her mind at last, knowing that she was not alone in her thoughts and feelings. Leaving her to her thoughts, he wandered his halls, deep in thought, and did not see his daughter again that day. He had been called away, Istiel told her daughter later that night, on an errand with the Dúnedain rangers, who were in need of him. Staring at the onions in front of her, Istirien sighed.

"Mercy on us. What would they need on a wild night like this that isn't hot food and a place to sleep?"

"Orcs," her mother replied in all honesty. Giving the soup a quick stir, she turned back to her daughter. "That was all I could pry from him…"

"So close to us? My cousins have told me that they dwindle in the Misty Mountains,"

"I asked him the same question, my dear, and he gave me the same one-word answer that I have given you. He told me to look for him on the fourth day."

A rather loud chop rang throughout the kitchen as Istirien started on chopping the onions. Frustration was written on her features. The woman spared a glance at her and raised an eyebrow, watching her work away her feelings on the onion.

"I wanted to talk with Mithrandir more and he left. Papa said we would talk tonight, and now _he_ left as well," she grumbled, her lips tight and her eyebrows furrowed. Istiel threw back her fair head and let out a loud, pleasant laugh at this. For a brief moment, Istirien gazed at her mother in wonder; the kitchen suddenly seemed less gloomy, filled with warmth and sunlight, and the sounds of the rain outside never sounded more peaceful than it did then. Once her mother had calmed herself, the grumpy summer storm seemed to return.

"Oh, dear Glauriel!" her mother cried with delight. "Your love of talk has not faded with the rest of your youth. Mithrandir leaves too soon, your father is called away by the rangers, and all you lament about is not being able to talk with either of them. I thought that perhaps for one moment, you were upset for his safety. How you make me laugh, child!"

Istirien pouted, her face twisted in ways that only hers could (and would), before delivering a fatal blow to a potato.

* * *

Yup, it's a bit - okay, a lot - darker than the first chapter. Which I planned. It's marvelous to write things now that I have a plan for them! :D I'm hoping that if all goes well, chapter three will contain a certain someone, and will be complete within a few days. :)

I'd love to hear your thoughts/comments on this; drop me a PM or a review! Don't be shy now. ;)

To ******silverswath**: fixed the spelling error, thanks! And, oh my... Strawberries? I have an unrequited love for those delicious berries! You have restored my hope in rhubarb, my friend! :)

***At the brilliant idea of ****Merlin's Ward Jack,** I included a song out of the book, The Fellowship of the Ring, which belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien in full, and is not my work. It comes from chapter one of book two within The Fellowship. On page 266. Paragraph... ;)  



	3. Fates Entwined

**A/N:** Whew! Sorry this one took a while. Life just happens sometimes, you know? The chapter is different than I planned it, but I think it's better this way. Anyways, enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **see chapter one

* * *

Days upon months passed by, and with each sunrise, the days grew longer and colder. Soon, the season would change to autumn. The woods of Findalassë began to grow restless, along with all its inhabitants. Moaning and creaking never ceased, even after the wind had stopped its gossip. Whatever fragile grip that it held on the peace it loved so was beginning to slip from its branches and roots. Arandil was rarely seen in his halls for weeks, being called upon by many old friends for his help.

During an extended amount of time in which he was away, Istirien no long felt at all satisfied wandering the surrounding wood. Restless was her heart of late, which only seemed to increase day by day; the darkness that grew in her mind was making her grow uneasy. Even in the kitchens where she felt most at home, nothing could ease the tension.

"Mama," she sighed, "I cannot contain myself here. Something makes my bones restless. Let me go out riding with Hannasbel, would you? Only for a few hours."

"You are a grown woman, Glauriel," her mother sighed. "See if you can rephrase this question of yours to me. I am no longer a granter of wishes."

"I forgot about that," Istirien said thoughtfully. "Let me begin again. Mama, would you mind if I went out riding with Hannasbel for a few hours? I feel in my bones a restlessness that cannot be rid of through walking, and I fear most _dreadfully_ to leave you alone."

"I suppose I may survive without you questioning me at every minute possible," her mother sighed, a small smirk holding to her lips. Istirien pouted at this.

"I'm not _that_ bad anymore, mama…"

Istiel just smiled at her daughter's remarks, a playful gleam in her rich eyes. Letting the silence surround her, she settled further into a wooden rocking chair, looking forward to those few hours ahead of her without talk. Nap time… It had been a while since she had hope of that.

In the meantime, Istirien skipped her way towards the stables, not bothering any of her precious time to change out of her grey cotton dress and into proper riding clothes; she was desperate. A soft pounding from within the stables told her that the stallion knew he was needed, and was, as always, growing impatient. Before she even crossed the threshold of the doorway, a long, broad neck was leaning over a stall door, gazing expectantly at her with dark brown eyes. The horse's ears kept flicking in impatience.

"Hello, my lad," she said with a smile. "No saddle today. I know you're every bit as restless as I am, and that would only delay us. But," she added, scratching him between the ears, "that means a bridle."

The horse snorted and shook his mane. A sigh escaped her lips when she saw the state of his coat and mane – she couldn't ride him like that. He leaned further into her touch, grunting in anticipation for another scratch.

"For that matter, Hannasbel," she frowned slightly, "I'm afraid we'll both have to wait a bit longer for that ride; seems as though someone neglected to brush you. No, no! Don't you put your ears back and shake your mane at me. I'll leave you here altogether and take Ladhes instead…"

Once she finished grooming him, she tacked him up with his bit and bridle, and finally was able to leave. They started at a brisk trot, his muscles having been out of use for a while. With the forest behind them, he broke into a canter northward, tossing his head and neighing in joy.

Chill winds swept over the hills, greeting them as the stallion pranced, whipping at his dark mane and tail. It wasn't long until he began to gallop, and soon, quite soon, the beats of his stride synchronized with the beat of his mistress's heart. The song washed over her, and she fell into a rhythmic trance.

Trees and grass began to fade; the horizon started to merge together, so that it was no longer earth and sky, but an array of pinks, purples, oranges, blues, and gold. Rolling hills were no longer rippling in the wind, but to her, they became vast shades of sage that began to mingle with drops of tree and sky. Her plait came undone, a mess of free-flowing night rippled behind the lady as she rode on, no longer feeling a part of the world. In a moment, Hannasbel once more gave a loud cry and reared his proud head, his hooves beating at the soft earth harder now than he had before. Days of restlessness were turned into sheer strength and energy that day.

Soon, he slowed into a canter, and then to a trot, and then he stopped. Sky and earth were dim and quiet, preparing for the long night that lay ahead of them. For a moment, horse and mistress stood at the top of a hill amongst hills, enjoying the last of the light of night. The horizon was lit with blue flame that licked viciously at the earth to stay alive, despite all knowledge of its eternal cycle, the sky grey. Rain began to sprinkle from the sky to the earth below, quenching its great thirst.

At the faint sound of many hoof-beats, she turned on the back of her steed. It was then that she realized she had never been this way before, atop hills of heather and few trees of holly. Turning her head, she listened; the horses were coming on faster than most. Hannasbel grunted.

"Shh," she soothed, rubbing his neck. In reply, he snorted lightly and stomped his foot. Gazing out into the near-darkness, she saw shadows moving swiftly across the hills. A fear gripped her heart as a revelation came upon her: atop an unknown hill she stood, and like a lost lamb awaited the wolves of the night. A shrill so cold and fiendish pierced the evening air, causing horse to jump and neigh, and mistress to gasp and cover her ears.

In a flash Hannasbel had reared onto his hind legs, and it was all she could to hold onto his body; he started into a gallop, his nostrils flaring, and his ears cast down. Before he had started, the horses and shadows had ridden to the bottom of the hill and were at their tail, riding hard and fast. Istirien's heart beat in her chest, and began to travel to other body parts: her throat, her stomach, and finally, her toes.

Looking behind her, she saw that it was not shadow that pursued her, but riders on tremendous horses. Nine of them there were, all black as a starless, moonless night, and in the center of them was one taller, faster, and larger than the other eight. This one raised its cloaked head to smell the air, and, after deciding on what it smelled, kicked its horse into a faster gallop, quickly gaining speed on the gray horse. The light sprinkle of rain now poured from the heavens while thunder echoed in the sky.

"_Elbereth Gilthoniel!" _Istirien breathed, urging Hannasbel to go faster as well. At these words, that same unholy, shrill cry came from behind, fading a little in the distance, while in her own veins, fear began to fade. At the sound of hissing close by, she whirled in the saddle, and the fear returned. Riding nearly next to her, the largest and fastest of the riders had caught up with her, the name not hindering him in the least. Istirien shrieked as a hand, clad in iron claw-shaped gauntlets, was thrust out towards her. "_Elbereth Gilthoniel, Manwë Súlimo… _Fly, Hannasbel!"

The rider hissed loudly at these names and drew back his arm hastily, his gauntlet digging deep into the back of the lady. She screamed in pain; it burned like fire within her flesh. Once more the rider sped his horse, graced with great endurance, onward, and reached out to her once more, this time quicker and harder. Just then her steed gave a loud neigh – a cry of determination, not fright – and beat his hooves harder and swifter than ever before, driven by an unknown strength. The cloaked rider's claw was left behind as the horse did so; instead of catching her neck like the figure had hoped, his claws once again ripped and tore at both cloth and flesh. Light grey cotton deepened as blood pooled around it, staining it forevermore.

Lightning crashed from the sky, easily felling a tall tree from its stump, which separated black rider from grey. Fire burst aflame on the dying wood and spread easily to the dry grass around it. Black horses reared in fear of the foul light, while its riders shrieked: Fire was hateful to them.

On and on Hannasbel still rode, whilst Istirien's senses were overwrought with pain: searing, burning, stabbing, icy pain. Evil was the claw that struck her, and evil was what lingered on, despite the blood that poured so freely from fell deeds. Sounds she could hardly make out, save the sound of her own heartbeat, which dulled even by the second. Mist slowly began to make her vision murky; color began to fade from the world. Everything began to sway, and only too late did she realize that it was she and not the world that moved, for with a great thud, her body like lead fell to the ground, and she knew no more.

Thin veils of mist poured into valleys between the Misty Mountains and southern peaks of the Ered Nimrais, which were cloaked in soft clouds of grey, still dark without the morning light. Grey light poured over the many hills and leagues of flat earth to the east, chasing after the pale lady that had hung in the sky not hours before. Stars faded as the light turned slowly into a warm, toasty gold. One by one, the song birds started their morning songs within a small, green valley, nestled in the north. Water rushed forth from the streams and rivers within, singing a fast, happy tune in the midst of the autumn season.

The pleasing scent of apples baking with rosemary and cinnamon dominated the air within ancient halls. Sweet, sweet rain had permeated repeatedly the entire week before, and suddenly, everything was so green – the very last grand display of living colors for the year. Fire burst forth on leaves, gleaming crimson and gold in the morning sun, glittering with delicate drops of dew. Fountains of mirth played joyfully in the many courtyards of a great house, nestled peacefully in the valley of Imladris. As the sun's ire intensified, dulcet voices filled the air with laughter and song:

"_Sing all ye joyful, now sing all together!_

_The wind's in the tree-tops, the wind's in the heather;_

_The moon has fled and the sun is in power,_

_And bright is the gaze of the Day from his tower._

_Dance all ye joyful, now dance all together!_

_Soft is the grass, and let foot be like feather!_

_The leaves are ablaze, the river is leaping;_

_Merry is day-time, and merry our meeting._

_Sing softly now, and dreams let us weave them!_

_Wind them is slumber, and there we shall leave them!_

_Lullaby! Lullaby! Alder and Willow!_

_Hush! Hush! You rivers a flow!_

_Fall, leaves, and dance merrily all around;_

_Whisper, beloved wind, in the early morn'!_

_Arise dear sun, and warm the yielding ground!_

_Sing all ye joyful, so sweetly thy dreams adorn…"_

Softly, in a world strange and separate from their own, darkness was slowly pierced by the light of the living world. A heart fluttered in the chest of a lady, sensing the presence of another. A dark-haired figured stirred, encircled by soft sheets and warm, cream covers, a soft moan stifled by an enormous feather pillow. Air once again flooded her lungs and deep was her breathing. Presently, she stirred once more, an urge within a dream to wake to the light of day, and know the crisp air of fall. Deep, rich eyes stared at the world around them as if for the first time.

Vines grew up along stone pillars and arches, reaching as time permitted them to the heavens above. Stone masonry like those that had been rarely seen by mortal eyes had built a magnificent structure, seemingly not for display of power or wealth, but creation for the sake of creation and beauty to be gazed upon and enjoyed. Not a thing drew breath aside from the newly awakened lady in the room, and as she gazed around, she saw that everything was fashioned in the same elegant, graceful manner as the building. The grim statue of a man beside her, the chandelier hanging from the ceiling above, and a beautifully draped settee across from the bed – all were so simple, and yet, detailed down to the very last thread of fabric that it seemed as if a dream had overtaken the world.

"What dream have I wandered into," she spoke, her voice no louder than a whisper, "or, what realm has my soul rested in?"

There came a soft chuckle from beside her, and she had to withhold a gasp. The statue of the man beside her was not a statue, but indeed, a living, breathing being, whose face seemed to glow. His garments were of light silver – so light, in fact, that it was hard to tell it apart from what one would assume would be white, if not for the undergarment of a white purer and brighter than snow. Golden was his hair in the shade, yet brilliant and almost brighter than his clothing it seemed in the sun. Wisdom dwelled in his bright grey eyes, his face fair and great.

"You speak soon for one so wounded," he spoke, his voice holding melodies and tones that no mortal man's own had ever held. "Do not fear – you are in the house of Elrond, the Halfelven. Though, some call it Rivendell, others Imladris."

With a small intake of air, her eyes grew wide. "Elrond, brethren of the Lord Elros?"

"One in the same," replied the fair being, a curious look in his eyes. "You know of them?"

"Many tales I have heard of them, yes," she answered, staring at him with eyes of wonder. "Though I myself have never met either, my father, Arandil, proclaims that he dwelt within these halls during his childhood…"

"Alas," cried the elf, "Arandil, son of Arador? Behold, he is known to me and my kin, if this is the man of whom you speak."

"It is indeed," she smiled at him, all sleep and dreadfulness fading from her eager face.

"I was there at the day of his birth, some twenty-seven and one hundred years ago," he told her, something like a veil was cast of his eyes as memories of days past came to light. "And now, I may finally guess as to who you are, and count myself a fool for not realizing this before you spoke. It is as like to a vision before me that you are now, a reflection of your mother, Istiel, daughter of king, with the likeness of your father's smile," and then he added, as an afterthought, "Forgive me, if you feel me too forward – I have been trying to guess your identity since you were discovered, not three days ago."

At those words, the lady gazed at the settee across from her for a great amount of time as her spirit noticeably fell. The cloaked riders. The darkness; claws and lightning; visions of days past were suddenly alight in her mind, of evil that had passed, evil that was, and evil that was to come. Worry flashed subtly on the elf's fair face at the heaviness of her breathing, and the darkness that filled her eyes and expression.

"By the Eastern borders of the Shire," he spoke, breaking her back into reality, "home of the Halflings, you were found, and brought back here with all haste. Three days have passed since your arrival, and many have tried their hands at healing you… Long has it been since such evil has been seen in these lands, though I fear that that same evil delivered to you your wounds. I myself gave chase of them while I could, for you were not the only one who was pursued."

Istirien tilted her head slightly, a questioning look on her face. "You know of those beings?"

"I've dealt with them in the past, I will say."

"Do you…" she paused for a moment, searching for the right words. "What were they, do you know? During Mithrandir's last stay, I fought with the darkness for sleep, and when it was granted, only visions of darkness could I dream of… Those riders appeared to me, in different forms – dark, young men shrouded in darkness, the head of a creeping shadow."

"Do you question me to further the knowledge of your vision, or in search of the answer to those that tore you?"

"Hah," was her laughing answer. "My father once told me never to seek an elf's counsel, for they will only reply with a question to yours. Truer words are seldom sooth."

A nightingale began to sing its sweet song somewhere in the valley, which echoed up into the air of the chamber in which she lay. Smiling, Istirien tried to sit up, feeling much too awake to continue lying down. Instead, she was greeted by a weakness in her back, and a strong, warm hand which held her up.

"Do not try your back too soon," the elf instructed, "for it will need time to remember its former strength. Healing weak muscles is something the body must do, not the elves."

Once she was nestled against an array of feathery pillows, a modicum of clear golden liquid was poured for her. It was delightfully light, warm, and soothing to the point that once it was gone, she almost asked for a pint of it. But elvish droughts are potent, even small doses. Soon, a child-like smile had fixed itself back onto her lips, and where the sunshine fell on her face, it almost seemed to make her glow. Even her laughter seemed sweeter than before.

"What a strange drought! You may find me wandering about these halls longer than need be if that is to be a medicine for me. I have not the words to describe it, and yet, in spite of that, it seems so familiar, as if I knew it well and had forgotten it. Even my body rejoices in receiving it."

"I am glad to hear this," he said with a smile. "It is a drink often given for long journeys, for the weary and the cold. Yes," he grinned at her inquisitive expression, "even elves tire on long journeys."

Smiling at him once more, she closed her eyes, and let the warm rays of sun shower warmth upon her body, cold from deep sleep. It wasn't long, of course, until she turned back to her companion with a question on her tongue.

"Forgive me, but I have not yet learned your name. Whom must I thank for waking once more among the light of the living?"

He looked through the arches towards the valley, pondering something in his mind. Opening his mouth, he turned back to her. "I am called Glorfindel, of the house of Finarfin, and have been such for many millennia." Glorfindel chuckled at the dazed expression on her face.

"The balrog slayer…" she dared to breathe.

"Indeed. Many of my kin have called me that; how come you to know such a tale? I cannot recollect telling your father of those tales."

"No, my father has long since halted telling such great tales to me," she sighed, a ghost of a fond smirk on her lips. "He said I was too talkative for him to get a word in. No, not my father. It was my dear Mithrandir, of whom I'm very fond. When I was younger – and still, admittedly so – I would sit at his feet and he would take me with him on whatever adventure he had already been on, or tales of people from the first ages, and even before that! There was Luthien, the Morning Star, and Nienna of the Vala, Lady of Mercy; of the Lord Elrond and his brother, Elros, and his sons. And the hobbit, Bilbo, whom I was told has been through Rivendell many times before…"

Her eyes gazed about the room, though truthfully, they did not see the graceful architecture; woods and valleys her mind raced over, her thoughts of ages past, and even some not belonging to Middle-Earth. Glorfindel seemed somewhat dull compared to the animated expressions on Istirien's own face. And then there was quiet. Nearby, a brook ran, echoing peacefully into the chamber, and the laughter of fair voices flew on the wind, which teased the leaves around the pillars with its ticklish whispers. Quietly she laughed, playing with the soft sheet.

"How I wish to see him again," she said wistfully. The elf raised an eyebrow, a mysterious look in his eyes.

"Would you?"

"Aye. Our last meeting was filled with ill-tidings and visions of the darkness…"

"Then it would please you greatly to learn that Mithrandir is here, in Rivendell," he announced. From the look on her face, he might as well have told her that the darkness in the east was no more; a light in her eyes that could not be suppressed twinkled in the light of day. The elf added, already knowing the answer, "Shall I send for him?"

"Oh, yes, if that would not be too much to ask," Istirien nodded eagerly. With a clear voice, the elf-lord called out in the language of the elves, and within seconds the door opened, and a blonde elf appeared without sound. The two conversed in their own language, and with a nod of his fair head, the elf was gone, and the two once again left in peace. Settling further into the fortress of pillow behind her, the lady gave a contented sigh, though her heart beat rapidly in her own chest.

"Lord Glorfindel?"

"Yes?"

"What is today's date?" she opened her eyes, staring at a fallen leaf that had blown onto her bed. "It was not so deep into autumn when I last walked..."

"Today is the twenty-second of October, as you would call it."

Her face fell slightly.

"Over a month it has been, then..."

But she didn't have much time to dwell on it, as the door bust open, and instead of a tall, grey-haired, bushy eye-browed wizard standing in the doorway (which is what they both expected to see), a lean man, taller than most, stood staring with eyes identical to her father's. With a cry of joy, she leapt from her bed to greet him, and fell promptly on her face.

* * *

**A/N: **Again. Yes. Another Author's Note... (I write a lot of these, but they're usually short). I just wanted to say THANK YOU to all who reviewed and favourited and alerted and read the last two chapters - your feedback is simply marvelous! Also, yes. I'm going to be mean and make you wait for the next chapter for a reunion, and explanation of why I chose this cliched date for her to be in Rivendell. And, more entirely, _why_ she's in Rivendell.

*Found in The Hobbit, page 299, 300. Belongs to J. R. R. Tolkien (as always), and I rewrote a few verses to fit it better into the story - the original song was about night time. :)


	4. A Brief Reunion

**A/N: **Sorry this chapter took a while, and is shorter than the first three... My grandmother is, well, dying, and my focus has mainly been on her this passed week. It's been nice to take a step back from it all and just write.

But don't mind my rambling; I hope you enjoy your read. :)

Disclaimer: see chapter one.

* * *

"Glauriel," the man cried, rushing towards the fallen maiden. Glorfindel was also by Istirien's side, though unneeded – she was in the man's arms, and soon back in the warmth and comfort of the bed, propped up with against numerous pillows. Sitting up against them, her weariness was soon almost as strong as the joy she felt not seconds before. The man knelt by her side and placed his hands around hers, his expression of joy laced with concern.

"I'm fine," she assured him, though it did little to ease his heart. She scoffed lightly. "Aragorn, dear cousin, I'm _fine._ It just was not one of my finest moments, mind you. But what a wonderful surprise to see you here! I had never known you to be fond of such nice clothes – you seemed to always don those stomping boots and tattered cloaks."

"I've had my own adventures on my way here," he gave a low chuckle. Worry did not move from his brow as he took a seat in a nearby chair, his grey gaze falling upon her neck. He frowned. "I would gladly tell you my tale, if you would but share your own, for these scars are unfamiliar to me."

For the first time since she had woken, Istirien fully recalled the exact memory of the thrashing she had received from the black rider, the incident which had somehow brought her to this beautiful safe haven. Casting her gaze to her left arm, her heart caught in her throat for a moment. Dull pain seemed to surface where she had remembered being torn, and on her left arm, where her skin was bare; she caught sight of a mangled scar. It occurred to her how much of her body felt constriction from scars, honey-like, not in the soothing sense, but in the sense that there was something thick that stuck to her skin. The pain throbbed lightly, deepest in her back and arm, and faintly along the thin strands of scar tissue along her throat.

Aragorn shifted in his seat, his jaw clenching at the sight of his cousin examining her newly found scars. Looking up to question Glorfindel on this, he saw that the elf was no longer there. He gave a squeeze to Istirien's hand, and pulled her white sleeve further over her arm, his fingers lightly grazing the scar. It was colder than a winter morning almost, and pale as the moon; the surrounding skin, unscathed, was supple, warm, and golden from the sun. There was little time for either of them to dwell much on the matter, for the booming voice of a beloved figure interrupted their silent thoughts.

"_I ought to roast him for letting her out of the house!"_

Aragorn shared a look with his cousin.

"And how badly was she injured? When did she arrive – by whom? Why did no one _tell me_?"

"She was brought three days ago," a fair elven voice replied.

They got no further on the matter, however, as at long last, the expected figure stood in the door way, his mouth in a thin line. The anger on Gandalf's face was soon replaced with tenderness and sympathy as he looked upon her. If two souls had ever been more communicative through silence, they had yet to be found. And just as Aragorn's gaze had soon drifted to her throat, so did the wizard's. His eyes gleamed with sorrow under his eyebrows, and he breathed deeply at the sight of the scars; he was still. Like a cloud blocking the sun, however, it passed, and a smile came to his lips.

"Hello, my girl," he greeted fondly, taking up in Glorfindel's old chair. "How are you today? The last I knew, you were quite happy in your mother's kitchen, singing of elves and not actually _meeting_ them. I ought to be furious, you know."

"You speak truth," she grinned at him, "but you are not, and here we are, in Rivendell."

He huffed. "I see that also answers my question in regards to your health…"

"You look better than when I last saw you, Mithrandir. Younger, more peaceful."

"And you look significantly worse."

"I did manage to find myself an adventure," she winked at him, and he rolled his eyes. Pausing, she let out a wistful sigh, a dreamy look in her eyes, as if she was somewhere else. "Although, I think I've only woken in the middle, or the beginning of it, and that there is much more to come of it."

"So there might be, but who is to say? Quite frankly, my dear girl, I wish you no part in it whatsoever," replied Gandalf.

"If you had your way," Istirien gave a wry grin, "I'm sure there would be few left who _could_ have a part in it."

Gandalf lit his pipe in reply, a smirk tugging on the corners of his lips. He blew out a puff of smoke before letting his gaze fall back to her, expectant and unwavering. Glancing at Aragorn, she saw that he held nearly the same expression. And she knew what was on their minds. Regardless, she piped,

"Is there something you wish to ask me, dear cousin?"

"Many things I would ask of you," he said quietly, his eyes dropping to her throat, "but only one merits my attention – your tale is left unspoken. Surely you cannot believe that my concern may pass like a breath of smoke upon seeing your smile. Evil, unlike that which has dwelt among men for many centuries has torn your flesh. No word of my uncle have I received in regards to you."

Darkness hazed over her Istirien's downcast eyes, as if at the mention of it alone had made the skies gray with remorse. Uncomfortable, the scars seemed colder and thicker than ever on her back. Raising her chin, she held her gaze with her father's brother-son, Aragorn, whose face was as grim as a fresh tombstone. "You will shame me, cousin, I know, for my horsemanship in this tale. Even more so for my foolishness in choosing your old horse, Hannasbel, who was restless; I fear he is lost to you forever now."

"He is dead, then?" Aragorn's voice was somber.

"Ah," she pursed her lips. "No – well, possibly. Hopefully not. He is lost, at best."

"How come he to such a fate?"

"I haven't started my tale yet, Aragorn," she reminded him with a solemn gaze. He put his hands up in surrender.

Istirien sat back again against the pillows, and, crossing her legs under the warm covers, began her tale. Bringing them back with her to noontide, three weeks ago, Istirien informed Aragorn exactly _why_ she had chosen his old horse, which was in all truth a very large horse, and though very gentle and easy, had a knack for whinnying at very inopportune times, and stomping his feet for no reason. By the end of the story, she was beginning to look very gaunt. Not for the mention of the terrors of the night that fell her, but for the energy that was drained from her. Aragorn was not as grim as he first was at the beginning – his eyes cast a light of sorrow on Istirien, much more compassionate and tender hearted. His fist rested by his lips, which were in a tight line.

"I seldom have words for that cry – bone-chilling, ear-splitting, piercing," Istirien shook her head, her brow furrowed in dismay; she sighed. "A cry from a vision is best I can say. Your last stay in my father's halls, Mithrandir, a series of visions I had, though I knew them not; my dreams take strange forms at times. Now I know that one told of my own demise – alone atop a strange hill, in the midst of darkness, with shadows in the form of ghostly men driving fear which I had not known before in to my heart."

There was a pause.

"What more did you see?" the wizard asked slowly, caution in his tone.

Istirien closed her eyes as she recalled the images of that dream, so many nights ago. Describing each dragonhead in detail, Gandalf seemed to lean closer to her, his brow furrowed. A look of complex understanding and puzzlement was beheld in his dark eyes. In his heart, he knew the answer to two of the three heads, and yet, for lack of further knowledge and council, said nothing of it. Instead, the wizard took the words of the third head, and the creeping darkness to heart to be pondered further in silence, and alone.

"One more sight I can recall. A large grey rabbit – shorter than you, Aragorn, but tall nonetheless – snuck into my kitchen and tried to steal my carrots," she paused briefly as she saw the look on the Gandalf's face, frowning slightly. "You asked me what else I had seen, Mithrandir, and now I have told you."

Slowly a smile made crept to his wizened face.

"You did well, my child," he said, his eyes closed. "But I must inform you that Hannasbel is not lost or dead. In fact, he's very much alive and eating to his heart's content in the stables here."

Aragorn sat up slightly, eyeing the wizard with interest, his grey eyes curious.

"He followed me here," Gandalf blew out a smoke ring. "Or rather, he followed my _horse_ here, which is another tale entirely."

"Is he not harmed?"

"Harmed!" exclaimed the wizard. "I should say not, other than a few brambles and nettles stuck to his coat, which may have scratched him a bit. He's as well and noisy as can be."

Turning to Aragorn, Istirien sent him a weary smile. "May I take back my apology, dear Aragorn? News has reached me that your horse has been found and is not lost. Or dead."

"You may, for now," he told her, a smiling. "Though, I've still not heard _how_ you thought him lost to me, or the tale of your horsemanship that seek my critique."

"Oh, yes. That." Her cheeks turned to roses as she sunk against the pillows. "I – erm – road in one of my housework dresses, and," Istirien paused, glancing up at him, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth; "I did not saddle him."

Aragorn held his pipe in midair, staring placidly at his young cousin. Seconds passed when he decidedly to open his mouth, but he was cut short by the wizard.

"It's not a wonder to me that you thought you lost your steed. Galloping and cantering for miles in a dress, and then pursued by the Nine…"

"Hannasbel is a faithful steed, Mithrandir, and I do not think that staying on his back was entirely my doing," Istirien replied, inadvertently tracing a scar along her throat.

"Faithful, I dare say he is," said Gandalf, leaning closer to her. "I was told they found your leg tangled in his reins; the poor beast dragged you with him beyond the Greyflood."

"What?" she gasped incredulously. "The waters must be nearly at their peak by now!"

Aragorn removed the pipe from his mouth. "Hannasbel is a clever beast; many times I have travelled in secret with him across the Greyflood, and many hidden paths did I have. I have no doubt that he was in search of me or my kinsfolk at the time."

Concern was made known on the brow of the lady's fatigued face.

"You cannot think… Oh, Aragorn, you have known my father long before I was born. What madness will this drive him to?"

"I know not," he answered truthfully. "If I but knew who had found you, I might know if word had been sent to him or not, but alas! Nothing of you was known to me until you spoke of it. Nor do I think any further news lies here, in Rivendell, for the day."

Presently, all effects of that wonderful elvish drought were beginning to face, along with the adrenaline of the moment. Istirien's eyes began to droop, her entire being feeling very somnolent. In another day and age, talking had taken such a modicum amount of energy from her that it was near second nature, but now, it was burdening her body. By the time she was asleep, Gandalf had taken his leave from them, saying,

"I think it's time to bring this meeting to adjournment for the time being. Other affairs must be seen to in Rivendell, but I will be back on the morrow. Good-bye, my girl."

Aragorn now sat on the edge of the bed, Istirien's hand rested in his, while his thumb caressed her knuckles. Watching his beloved cousin smile in her sleep, deep and dreamless, his gaze soon filled with remorse as it drifted to her neck. He had not told her the true origin of them, or what it meant, as being and waking in Rivendell was enough to process for the day for her, he thought, and silently had Gandalf agreed with him. Upon further examination of the scars, it was apparent to him that the deepest wounds, inflicted with true malice and ancient evil, would never truly heal. The shallower scars – the small veins across her neck and throat – those had already faded significantly, though he doubted they would anymore. They bore the same fate, tainted by the same foul hand.

Until the darkness had long since spread its wings, the ranger stayed with her. With hungry stomach and weary mind he left her, planting one last tender kiss on her brow. The worry that weighed on his shoulders was great for both his cousin and the hobbit Frodo, one of which there was hardly any news of. Even late into the night, there hung uncertainty in the air of the elven halls, as shadows drifted long and dark across the marble floors. Midnight had passed, and Aragorn found himself engrossed in a book, though no words he remembered. It felt as if need was great to send her back to her father after she was well enough for the travel, and yet… A shadow of a doubt grew in his mind. Safety was nearly a given in Rivendell. Who could say what the journey would hold southward? Her own home was nigh on three hundred miles and fifty, south and west as the bird flies. Orcs and warg were populating many of the lands southward, trolls and other beasts as well.

Of course, his worry would not end there. Istirien did not fully wake from her slumber, only stirring lightly and smiling faintly at time. So Aragorn would sit at the edge of her bed, holding softly her hand and singing quietly of the songs that she loved. Every now and then, she would open her eyes, half-awake, and they would land on him, casting a light of thankfulness upon him. Again, slumber would over take her, and he was to stare at his sleeping cousin, with no clear idea of her waking. During a moment of disappointment, a warm, slender hand touched his shoulder. At the sight of the she-elf behind him, he seemed to grow in stature and presence, captivated in heart by her eyes.

"Arwen," Aragorn whispered, a look of relief on his weary features. Smiling softly, she wrapped a hand around his, her gaze gentle and reassuring.

"Go, and rest, Aragorn. There is nothing you need fear – she is safe, among the living, and near my father. Her slumber is not out of despair, but of healing," she told him quietly. With downcast eyes he listened, yielding to her touch.

"She has suffered much," his voice was hushed, an octave above a whisper. "I fear her dreams to be tainted."

"I will stay with her though out the nightfall, Aragorn. Evil does not enter easily into my father's house, nor does it linger. Sleep, and eat. I will be here."

For a moment, Aragorn looked doubtful. Arwen gave him a loving smile, and with a small amount of playfulness, she let out a small laugh and said,

"I do not need sleep as you do, Dúnadan."

"And who am I that I should deny you your wish?" He smiled gently, holding her cheek in his hand. Raising her delicate hand to his lips, he bade her farewell, and left the chamber.

Starlight and moonlight gently cast all in an opalescent glow, the contrast between the pale, white hand of the elf maiden and the golden hand of the Dúnadain maiden surely noticeable. Istirien began to stir, a troubled look on her face, but at the mellifluous voice of her caretaker, it vanished, and peace once more filled her repose.

"_Silver flow the streams from Celos to Erui_

_In the green fields of Lebennin!_

_Tall grows the grass there._

_In the wind from the Sea_

_The white lilies sway,_

_And the golden bells are shaken of mallos and alfirin_

_In the green fields of Lebennin,_

_In the wind from the Sea!"_

* * *

**A/N: **Well? How did you like it? I put a lot of dialogue in here at first, and then felt it too much... I just couldn't resist putting the Arwen/Aragorn scene in at the end! They're just so loving. And did you know that Tolkien's wife was the inspiration for Luthien and Arwen? So cute. :)

Also, someone tell me that I didn't Mary-Sue the horse, Hannasbel. I made him a bland color (dappled grey, because I'm a bit tired of brown), he's not the best steed in the land, and he's not 'untamable'. Though he is big, it's due to Aragorn (who's 6'6'', I've read) being his original master... Not necessarily fast, but he's got some good endurance; he's a ranger's horse. And the reason I'm telling you all of this is because I was recently scarred by a Mary-Sue fic, in which the horse was black as midnight, fast as lightning, and was named... MIDNITE. I'm not sure if I can remember correctly, but in many other Mary-Sue fics, the Sue is the only one that can calm them...

I just want a normal horse, but even normal horses have personalities, right?

I've decided to reply to reviews here at the bottom, as well! I kinda forget to else wise...

**Jennifer Cleary:** I hope this update answered your questions! Oh. Wait. I'm not sure if I made it clear (I didn't really see where I could imply the exact relationship of the two in here), but they are cousins through Istirien's father, Arandil. Who was Arathorn's younger brother, by at least ten years. :)

**Certh:** Thank you! I wanted to go about her story in a different way, with no real prompt for Rivendell, just a silly mistake. Her background was actually really fun to come up with, although at first, her parents were dead, and she talked to trees. I'm kinda glad that I developed her. :D

**Sic Vita Est:** Glad to hear it! (about your pen name) I love latin... C:

**P.S: Does anyone want to beta-read for me? :D**


	5. A Case of Curiosity

**A/N:** I'm not dead, I promise. Scout's honor. ;) Hope you guys enjoy this chapter, sorry it took so long!

Also, it's been officially decided that Hannasbel is a completely average horse.

* * *

Aragorn paced in his room, deep in thought. His brow was twisted in a furrow as his thoughts roamed uncharted lands. A pit had formed in his stomach. Had he _really_ searched the entire grounds? What keen-hearing and sighted elf had he passed by? The stables were empty, save the horses and groomsmen, the gardens filled with every type of laughter but that which he searched for. Only one man did he find: Boromir, of Gondor, who looked upon him in curiosity.

"_Do not panic,"_ Boromir had said, _"it is a large ground here. I do not doubt that you will find what you're looking for by the noontide."_

_Do not panic._ Aragorn wasn't panicking. Did he appear he was as such? Concerned, possibly, and maybe worried, but panicked? Absurd. He had actually considered himself to be quite cool and collected given the present situation.

Istirien's bed was bare.

The bed clothes had been stripped and replaced, the pillows fluffed, and a white gown discarded on the settee, while one fresh green gown lay neatly folded beside it, with no trace of the lady. Of course, the Ranger had been through worse in his trials, but where could such an invalid wander off to in Rivendell? He checked the library; he knew she loved her books dearly. After that came the gardens, with no avail, and following came the stables, where only Hannasbel seemed to be attentive to his presence, and grumpy.

Now here he was, out of ideas and striding from one end of his chamber to the other. Rubbing his temples, he let out a long sigh. Rivendell… He had lost her on her first visit.

Not much of a Ranger, he thought dryly, let alone the heir of Gondor. Where was she?

"Oh," a voice said, "you're already up."

Aragorn's back stiffened. In a state of slight consternation he turned, and saw exactly what he had been looking for all morning: The very woman he had turned Rivendell over for, staring back at him bemused, with a tray of hot food in her arms. She had bathed, brushed her hair, and changed into a warm copper gown girded with gold, looking even better than she did in her own home.

He closed his eyes and shook his head gently. "Of course, the kitchens," he murmured, inwardly laughing at himself. Istirien smiled at him, an eyebrow quirked and she strode over to a table in his room.

"Yes," said Istirien, setting the tray on the table, "the kitchens. Of course the kitchens. Where else _but_ the kitchens? Aragorn, be a dear and tell me why we're talking of kitchens."

She walked back over to the relived (yet somewhat shocked) Ranger, and, taking ahold of his shoulders, him a sweet smile, spun him around and walked him over to the table. He was promptly forced down into a chair and told to eat.

"Well? Don't just stare," Istirien said, sitting down across from the bewildered ranger. She motioned to the food. "Eat, I made you breakfast. I was hoping to surprise you this morning, but I lost track of time. The elves here are so wonderful! They were teaching me all sorts of things – oh, you were looking for me, weren't you? That's why we were talking about the kitchens. Of course."

Aragorn stared at her. Was this the same woman whom had been struck by the darkness of Mordor?

"You are awake," he said blatantly. Istirien blinked, her arms dropping to her sides.

"Indeed."

"You no longer sleep," he frowned, pulling his chair to the table.

"Yes, well spotted."

He poked at the food in front of him skeptically. "You made this?"

"Did I?" Istirien sat back in the chair, smiling mischievously.

"I see you're feeling well today," Aragorn said, taking a bite of honey cake. "The more questions I ask, the more childish your answers will be…"

She sent him a giggle in reply. For a period of time, the sound of cutlery chinking against porcelain the only sound that heard in that room. The eyes of Istirien were upon him, curious and secret as ever as he ate. Aragorn's own eyes would shift every now and then from his food to Istirien, who was chattering away happily of a new bread she had learned about as she stared at him in amusement. On and on she went, each word going in one ear and out the other. From time to time, he would nod his head in agreement with what she was saying, giving her the illusion of complete attention. Then, in the middle of a bite of some sort of cake, she fell silent.

"Is all well?" she said, quietly. "You have that look in your eyes…"

"Look?"

"Yes, you get an absent glance when something's amiss."

"Of course," he said, "now you sit before me, a vision of health, when only last night I sat before you in uncertainty. Surely the elves have given you a drought of youth – I can hardly recall when last you talked so much. "

Istirien looked down and blushed, having not realized how loud she had been. Even to this day, tale of her tongue still lived on, and it seemed even those she had never met before had already heard of it.

"Gracious me, I thought you didn't like your food," she said with a laugh.

"That would be harder to believe than your current state," he grinned. "You look a different person today. I had not thought you to be strong enough to walk so soon."

There was a twinkle in her eyes as she shifted in her seat. "Indeed, I feel much different today, cousin," she paused, something subtle twinkling in her eyes. Acting very nonchalant as she picked up the teapot, she added cooly, "Much older, too… There was a man I saw today, so likened to my cousins, and yet so different… fairer, even."

Coughing sounded from Aragorn. Of course it had absolutely _nothing_ to do with the notion of a mysterious man that his beloved cousin had just mention.

Istirien sat up, concerned, though Aragorn held a hand up in objection. Once he regained the usage of his airways, a slightly disapproving look entered his eyes along with curiosity. He wondered… Did she mean Boromir of Gondor? He was the only man Aragorn knew about in Rivendell, a man of the South with similar bloodlines. As Aragorn surveyed her face in search of any clue as to her seriousness (she had been known to tease him), he found there to be no giveaway. He leaned towards her.

"Of whom do you speak?" he asked, his voice much colder than he anticipated it to be.

"Boromir of Gondor," Istirien sighed dreamily, staring off into the distant valley. Her eyes glazed over as if a daydream had suddenly claimed her mind, and she slumped in her chair, clasping her hand over her heart.

Boromir of Gondor? Surely she could not be serious! He was a man of proud statute, stubborn, and rash. Honest, yes, but many flaws were to be seen in him.

"Truly…?" Aragorn asked in quite disbelief.

Sitting back up swiftly and propping her elbows up on the table, her chin resting in her hands, Istirien looked lucid as could be. Something of a silly grin was glued to her face.

"No," she said, "I was only teasing you. But you cannot deny yourself that you were frightened, if only a little. Your eyes betray you sometimes."

Aragorn narrowed his brow, frowning slightly as at his cousin. Somehow his heart felt lighter, and Boromir seemed now a completely agreeable man to him.

"Oh, come now, cousin," Istirien said. "You say yourself that you were happy that I was feeling well. Humor me a little, at least on this first day."

"Twenty-seven years, and you have hardly grown,"

"Nay – surely you know I am capable of good company?" Istirien asked, helping herself to some toast on his plate.

"I have yet to find that out," he smirked.

Istirien gasped, mockingly. "Why do you doubt me? I cook well, don't I?"

"Cooking is different than conversing,"

"Potato, tomato," she pouted, folding her arms across her chest. Istirien's pout, of course, did not last long, and was replaced by soft smile. "The man Boromir is fair as those of the South are, but I do not find my feet carrying me to him. Although, if he had a kingdom…" she trailed teasingly, an eyebrow raised and her eyes slyly downcast.

"Istirien," he scolded.

She grinned.

"You know I'm not serious," she said.

Aragorn sent her a bemused smile, cupping his chin in his hand. "Of course, how could you be?"

"Aragorn!" she shot, narrowing her eyes. He chuckled light heartedly in reply, happy to be in such good spirits with his cousin.

"Tell me why you seem in such a merry mood today," Aragorn asked, a twinkle set in his grey eyes; Istirien gazed up at the ceiling contently.

"I tease you for the high spirit I find myself in today, as if the world were my plaything," she darted her eyes to him, a sadistic smile slowly forming on her lips. "I hope not to alarm you, good sir, but you are _in_ my world."

"I assume there's no way out of your world, is there?"

"Sadly, no. Even death could not help you now."

"My last resort," Aragorn said, "_gone_."

He sent her a something of a playful smile of his own, fixing his keen eyes to her in a pensive manner – he had not seen her so animate since she was twelve. Five days of rest in Elrond's House, of course, could have a multitude of effects on a person, and this just happened to be the effect chosen for her. Hopefully, it would wear off in a manner of hours, and she would calm down.

But her effervescent mood lasted days. In fact, it was strange to find her alone and quiet anymore. Whether she was with Aragorn, Gandalf, grooming Hannasbel in the stables, or taking him out for a walk, it could be counted on that some form of being was with the lady, and that she was talking at them. Gandalf seemed a bit cheered by her energy, although he did feel a bit bad for the elves, whose keen hearing was legendary.

For some reason beyond the knowledge of Istirien, the wizard had withdrawn himself from the world and now poured over books and maps… along with Aragorn. Neither of them could lend their ears to her chatter for hours, and so, Hannasbel suffered dreadfully. Istirien was found quite often grooming him on those days, talking at him, and the poor beast for his own part had his ears down an awful lot. Most of the time it was overlooked by the lady as something one would normally do when in Rivendell, but when her mood had calmed down, and she was back to her usual self, curiosity began to strike her when the two were nowhere to be found.

She kept to herself, often sitting in the gardens with a book or two, or quietly working in the kitchens. There were times that she would sit in a corner of a secluded part of the house, reading or sketching here and there. A few friends she had made among the elves, though she didn't see them on a regular basis. Boromir she formally introduced herself to, while walking with Aragorn, and surprisingly she got along with him well and thought him a good man.

On a sunny afternoon, about one week since, she was seen sitting lazily upon a settee, on a veranda facing the valley. A half-eaten apple sat in her hand as she gazed mindlessly into space. Crunchy, sweet, and juicy, as any ripe, fall apple should be, it was the only thing that connected her to the world at the time. Her heart absentmindedly brought her miles away to her father's hall, Nildocar, where a small flicker of hope arose in her.

A small cough, however, brought her fully back to the world of Rivendell. Looking up, she saw a very small man, a bit taller than three feet, with graying brown curly hair.

"Hello there," she said, sitting up. "Am I in your way, sir?"

"As a matter of fact," said the little man, quite happily, "you are in my way, in a way. I like to sit here and think sometimes, and as you are – or were – stretched out upon it, there isn't room for me."

Raising an eyebrow at his cheek, she swung her legs over the side, and into a pile of crunchy leaves, so as to make room for him. As the man sat down beside, he gave a contented sigh, and what happened next couldn't have been helped. Istirien began to study him, and found him as much a curiosity as the elves. He seemed young, but his eyes were old, holding many years behind them, and his voice had been younger than what seemed right for what he seemed to be.

He stared into the valley, very much in thought, as the sun began its descent behind the hills. His legs dangled over the edge.

"Hmm," she sighed aloud, thinking him very odd.

"You're wondering what I am, aren't you?" he asked calmly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Er – well, perhaps," Istirien admitted hesitantly.

He chuckled. "I am a Hobbit, you should know. A Halfling, one of the Shire, and Bilbo Baggins in my name." At this he gave a flourished little bow.

She let out an audible gasp. A Hobbit, and not just any Hobbit – but _the_ Hobbit, Bilbo Baggins sat next to her in Rivendell, a character straight from Gandalf's stories.

"Are you well?" said Bilbo.

"Yes," she gave a final cough. "Yes, thank you. You caught me by surprise, master Baggins! Gandalf talks fondly of you—"

"Gandalf!" Bilbo exclaimed delightedly. "Dear Gandalf... You've met him, then?"

"In a way," she replied whimsically. "That is to say, I met him again when I woke here."

Bilbo leaned closer to her subconsciously, curiosity lining his lively face.

"Met… _again_?" he asked inquisitively.

"Mhm,"

"Well? Don't just sit there and nod, my girl. Elaborate – when did you meet him? How? Oh, any meeting with Gandalf is sure to be the mark of a good story," the Hobbit rubbed his hands together excitedly, staring up at Istirien expectantly.

She tilted her head and looked away thoughtfully. "I can't recall."

Poor Bilbo let out a small gasp, having been very taken aback by her statement. Staring up at her still, with wide eyes, he asked,

"_Not recall_… Not recall meeting Gandalf the Grey? Bless me, child. You don't expect me to _believe_ that, do you?"

He looked away from her, mumbling under his breath. How could someone forget their first encounter with the Grey Wizard? It seemed impossible at the time, but he had not yet heard the rest of her story to make sense of it.

"I think," he said, turning back to her, "we should take a moment and try to remember it… Er – what did you say your name was again?"

"Oh, I beg your pardon," Istirien said with a laugh, "I've forgotten my manners in Rivendell, it seems. I am Istirien, daughter of Istiel, wife of Arandil of Nildocar."

"Istirien," Bilbo repeated thoughtfully. Loud laughter echoed from deep within the hobbit's throat, louder than Istirien had thought possible. She wondered what he found so funny.

"I should have known," Bilbo howled gleefully, "that it was you. He speaks so often of you, I'm surprised I didn't recognize you. I feel as if we have known each other since youth."

"Technically," Istirien beamed, her eyes twinkling, "I _am_ a youth."

"Ah – yes, well, there is that. Of course, the youth you are now, from my understanding, is quite different from the youth you once were."

"Oh, dear me. How much has he told you?" she asked timidly, shrinking slightly in her seat.

Bilbo chortled, swinging his feet beneath him. "From the look on your face, I should say not enough!"

"He has many a tale on me that I wish he didn't," she replied, blushing sheepishly.

"Talkative girl from my understanding, weren't you?" he asked, pulling scarf tighter around him as a brisk autumn breeze blew by. Istirien bit her lip.

"I've gotten better…"

"Exactly why I have not had the pleasure of speaking with you until now," said Bilbo warm-heartedly, tapping his walking stick on the floor beneath him. Istirien shrugged her shoulders in a slightly disapproving manner, crossing her legs.

"The pleasure," she said, "is all mine, I assure you. Though what pleasure could come to you from me talking you out of Rivendell, I can't imagine."

"Come now," he said, positively, "I'm sure you could do a lot worse than that. But let's not dwell on it – I can see you're fond of conversation and quiet. Sitting here all by yourself for an hour when I arrived, I'm sure Gandalf would be proud."

Istirien looked down at him, and could not help but admire his spunk which twinkled even in his eyes. She took a bite of her unfinished apple in silence.

"So," said Bilbo, "tell me what brings you to Rivendell in this blustery time of the year. Is it about…" He glanced around nervously, motioning for Istirien to come closer. She bent down. He whispered hoarsely, "_You-know-what?"_

Istirien drew back.

"_You-know-what?"_ echoed Istirien tentatively. What _was_ she supposed to know? Whatever it was, she hadn't the slightest clue. Bilbo rolled his eyes, frustrated.

"You _know_ what. How could Gandalf not tell you? Haven't you been taking up all his free time? Pah! I'll wager _that's _why I never see him anymore." Bilbo grumbled.

Was that why Gandalf was so busy? Why Aragorn hardly breathed anything aside from parchment, so interested in maps? He knew the lands like his own hand, better than her father, even, having roamed into the south – the land of Umbar. What was this _you-know-what_ the Hobbit seemed to know about? She glanced at him, a twinge of jealously striking her heart… Had Gandalf trusted him more? Not that Gandalf was someone to fight over, but did this strange little Hobbit merit knowledge that she had not?

"What am I supposed to know," Istirien said, "Master Baggins?"

Istirien tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear, her gaze hardening.

Bilbo, who had hoped to avoid the subject all together once he realized that she had not been informed on it, stared at his hairy feet, humming to himself contentedly as if he hadn't heard a word. She loomed over him unsmilingly, the difference between their heights vast.

"What in the world aren't you telling me, Bilbo Baggins?"

The humming stopped. Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at her, startled at seeing her so close, the last light of the sun casting dark shadows on her face. Scoffing, he gave in.

"Oh, fine," he growled. "I'll tell you. But if I get into trouble, I'll tell everyone you forced it out of me! It's something very secret – indeed, if Gandalf hasn't told you yet, I can't imagine why I should." Bilbo looked her up and down, rethinking his decision.

The shadow of Istirien engulfed the poor Hobbit. Looking up into her gaze, he hastily averted his eyes, shrinking in defeat.

"He _does_ seem to like you an awful lot." Bilbo said.

"That he does."

"You are a cunning sort." He grumbled. "If you must know, and I mean _must_, then I shall tell you. But only if you must!"

"Only if she must _what_?" said a deep, proud voice. The two looked up from their huddle to see Boromir of Gondor approaching them, a hidden look upon his fair face.

"Nothing, lad," Bilbo said hastily. "Well, I am curious of your honey cake expertise, I must say. So good talking and thinking here with you, dear Istirien. Perhaps some other time, then? Good-bye!"

He scurried away, avoiding all eye-contact, leaving the two to watch bemused; their eyes followed him as they would follow a skittish sparrow that had just stolen a morsel from a picnic.

* * *

**A/N:** ...Would you be mad if I told you it's been done for a while...? :)

**Sic Vita Est - **Glad you liked it; thought it would be interesting if they were related, yet not siblings. :)

**Certh - **Yay! The Aragorn/Arwen scene was my favourite to write, they just seem so in love with each other! And oops! Silly me. Fixed it!

**Aranel3 - **Thanks! Hope this chapter didn't break the 'so far' bit. ;)

**Lady Astrid - **Oops? Haha - I posted another chapter! ... a month later... :D But thank you for your lovely review! You did make my day.

**Sheepthief -** Aw, you're so sweet! Thank you, darling. :) I'm glad to hear that about Gandalf, I love his character in the books and movies. Hope you enjoyed this chapter!


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